Wheatfield with clothes
by GoldfishSoup
Summary: After much antipation, Paul Gaugin arrives at the Yellow House. With Van Gogh's history of failed romances, is it hardly surprising he is getting himself into another tragedy, in the hands of arrogant genius?


(A/N : I tried to keep this as believable as possible, based on research and character profiles from Van Gogh's letters, but the scene is fictional and meant only as a creative exercise with my writing, also as something of personal enjoyment. Please enjoy!)

One thing that I did not anticipate about Vincent was how his pen transpired so seamlessly into his personality that one could only describe him as an extremely gentle natured and rare individual. Naturally I was to take the guest bedroom here in Arles, although it has gained several more canvases since its beginning and as time continues to eclipse over the Yellow House.

I like to keep to myself, mostly –we both do- the process of artistic creation is so solitary, so personal that sometimes I barely remember that I am in the company of another! Yet, I cannot, as Vincent, do nearly as quickly... somehow this is irritating although his work continues to grow in quality, life and an almost overwhelming sense of spirit. It may someday even challenge my own. I thought that perhaps Vincent was more sincere than I, that he was the one who was too involved in his work and that eventually it will become impossible to distinguish the lead of the oil with the iron in his blood. He is dearly passionate in all of his efforts, and somehow the change of cobalt blue in the sky into a solemn grey was the bigger surprise than the day Van Gogh confessed his adoration of me.

Oh no, I'm no longer talking about art; all abstraction had left the pair of us as the frail man wrung his hands like somebody with twice his years, words unusually muffled with the heavy tinge of soreness and aching. I can remember how his eyes looked particularly vivid against the weakness of his body. It was enough to daze me for a moment, even. Yet, again I could not find myself with the slightest notion of surprise. I did not give him a reply and instead suggested that we take our work to the wheat fields by the train track. Whilst we walked Vincent asked me about my wife and children. I told him that I would write, perhaps once a month but how I yearned for a life of eternal light and colour- something I simply could not find in the north.

He seemed to perk up in his spirits a little, but I pretended to be ignorant of why. I knew that a part of that desperately lonely man was relishing the thought that I did not care for them much, that I was willing to leave it all in search of something brighter. But I understand perfectly that Arles is not the place I have been searching for, but again, I chose not indulge the fellow in my thoughts.

Vincent in all of his relief painted with a kind of vivacity and power that was stimulating to watch. The colour seemed to erupt from the man, great blasts of gaudy yellows, greens that suffocated the canvas and electric blues which seemed to drown the image with an intense, chilling heat. I sketched the lines of buildings in the distance, the train line in particular which became a fascination for us both as the stream engines spat their clouds into our clear landscape. We didn't speak for a time as we worked but once we were both satisfied with our canvases- when our stomachs rumbled too much to ignore, that is- we ate our bread and supped our wine amongst the tall blades until the dusk had set on us both. Even I couldn't deny the beauty of it; the sky was precisely the same shade of orange as Vincent's hair and against the golden fields it cast a pleasant image. But Vincent seemed to drink the sight as though he longed to sit between the horizon line and become part of the air itself.

It was time for lovers to lose themselves in their passions, for artists to become their art, and all at once ideas formed in my head. Although I should have felt guilty for them, it simply did not occur to me to be ashamed. I was certain that the same had been running through my companion's mind too; dozens of unanswered questions and doubts that I had delayed a reaction to were etched into Vincent's expression. I had abandoned my chair by then, sitting with my rear to the hard earth and feeling the prickling of stalks against my bare skin. No voice of disgust sounded as I undressed, leaving my trousers in their place but loosening them considerably. The streets were silent now and so were we – he looked at me and I looked at him with a far more lustrous gaze. His hollow cheeks and hooked nose cast heavy shadows across his face though I could see he was gifted with a smile.

Soon we both were sat side by side, his head pressing drunkly against my chest, his thin lips and whiskers bristling over my nipples and making them stand erect. Vincent muttered his praise into me and I took it easily, growing restless with the clumsy whispers. You could hardly fault me, after being so long without the comfort of my wife or Bernard, for missing the exhilaration of sexual contact. I simply took a fancy to the moment, not really feeling yet experiencing everything. Vincent continued to moan as I encouraged his head towards my pressing erection, and eventually he pushed himself away, his brow creased and his lips twitching with uncertainty. Unfortunate really that I had to groom the poor fellow first, but such action seemed necessary. Vincent was close to one of his dark moods, and making our companionship awkward and tense was not something I was willing to take responsibility for. Courteously I apologised for my behaviour, stating how my affection for him could barely contain itself, how it was selfish and prudent of me... His anger seemed to subside at this and I felt comfortable enough to touch him once again, to which he moaned rather differently, as a dog would to its owner, clutching with surprising strength to my body.

We kissed for a time, although I might venture Vincent gained more from it than I – his lips were not nearly as soft as that of a woman's, tasting of a brothel and his skin smelling of wheat. Nevertheless, I kept the pleasantry of it for as long as the first touches lasted. I told him plainly that I reciprocated his feelings, before pressing my lips more feverishly to his in order to rouse his interest. The light of our usual cafe glowed dimly like a firefly in the distance and now the trains had ceased, or passed least as oft. I cried a little of my cold, but Vincent did not replace my shirt as I had expected. It was better, in fact – his smock now laid next to the collaboration of painters entwined in each other.

_You're incredible Vincent. Can you feel how my heart is beating for you? _I had offered.

_I was afraid. But, oh, I'm so glad now- I can scarcely believe it. It is like a dream, no- more like a painting of a dream. Yes... that's better._

That was his reply. His voice was stronger now and he no longer looked anxious in my affections. He was quite steady.

The games had continued for too long, I had thought, and I couldn't dare to imagine the consequence of such sweet nothings. Vincent would satisfy my desires here in Arles, just as another would do elsewhere. Perhaps it would make it more bearable, for the time, to have someone I could pretend to love. Vincent needed to be cherished, and if one could satisfy that, what harm could it do to provide it, even if only for a little while? It is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all, so they say...

Upon touching his crotch I felt immediately that he too was overcome with the uncomfortable ache, the dampness of his pre-cum spreading over my palm. I took the length in my hand, kissing him once again and securing his head by locking his hair between my free fingers. The straw hat he had been wearing toppled off although we barely noticed it. I was surprised to feel how Vincent was bigger than me, although my own was far thicker and something I always had taken pride in. He squeezed mine once through the fabric until I pulled away the obstruction. Vincent touched my erection with a kind of artistry and skill, never roughly or violently as though he was caressing the petals of his beloved sunflowers. But nevertheless, it still was not enough to bring me to my full height with such careful and predictable movements. I wanted to be in control; there was no doubt I was the most capable and I would not accept it any other way, and I am sure Van Gogh would not either.

Understanding what was going to happen, Vincent withdrew his touch as I encouraged him to submit to me, my penis standing proudly and pressing against the flesh as I leant over my male companion and licked along his spine. Shuddering a little, the moan he emitted spurred me to thrust my hips further into his, my length pulsing strongly. I could tell he was unfamiliar with homosexual activity because he was surprised and a little resentful when I pushed my wet fingers to his entrance.

_I have to prepare you, Vincent. It will hurt less. _I said kindly.

I knew I would need to restrain him in a way that would not cause him distress, so I turned to my charm; I kissed every inch of him I could reach, clamping my hand over his wrist as I began to stretch my fingers. And when, finally, the task was done, I was able to fully claim my reward. There was only a small noise of discomfort as I pushed myself fully into Vincent, and then he was quiet, making vociferation with the smallest, softest whimpers of pleasure. Just as well he were discreet because for one I never liked a noisy sex partner and two, I did not want to attract too much attention.

Once I was inside I did not hear or appreciate much apart from my own hacked breathing. The tightness of him was slightly uncomfortable against my hardness and I yearned to come as quickly as possible. It was only as I began to increase pace, becoming harder and rougher that I realised Vincent was rigid and I could feel his body pulsate beneath mine as he ejaculated onto the earth. He whined for a few minutes, as I too brought myself to climax.

Vincent looked as though he were half pained, half elated- his eyes were brimming with tears and his body glistened with our efforts. I said nothing, but pulled on my clothes as the other rose shakily to his own feet and I noticed he was purse-lipped with the effort to stand aright. I almost expected him to shout or bellow at me, yet he did not. Vincent simply looked at me and gave a fraction of a smile, and I could only conclude he had forgiven me and my impatience.

We carried our canvases to the Yellow House without speaking. Vincent, who never spoke much, either could not or chose not to comment on what had just happened. I, on the other hand, was silent because for the time I did not wish to acknowledge that I had experienced anything more than a quick fuck in the wheat fields. It occurred to me then, as I glanced to him, there was one thing missing, something not quite whole about his appearance.

The straw hat remained behind in the place as a tribute. A tribute to defiled of Vincent Willem Van Gogh.


End file.
